


stand red-handed

by worcky



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Angst, Breathplay, Coming In Pants, Face-Fucking, First Time, M/M, Oral Sex, Self-Destructive Behavior, Suicidal Ideation, dubcon, sad attempts at kink negotiation, sad fucked up men do sad fucked up things to each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-02 11:29:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15795603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/worcky/pseuds/worcky
Summary: Marcoh knows they should be finished now, but something in him doesn’t want to let this go so quickly.





	stand red-handed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saltedpin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltedpin/gifts).



> Title from ["Down" by Margaret Atwood.](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/811636-there-is-the-staircase-there-is-the-sun-there-is)
> 
> Heed the tags.

Marcoh knows they should be finished now, but something in him doesn’t want to let this go so quickly: the seat beneath him, the early morning cold in the room, Scar’s silence and his patience and the taut warmth of his skin under Marcoh’s cautious fingers. The lantern burns low. Shadows leap and blur across the table, Scar’s arm, Marcoh’s hand where it rests on Scar’s wrist.

There’s no reason for them to stay. Surely Scar will go once he realizes. Perhaps he has realized already and is waiting to see how Marcoh intends to explain himself. Half afraid to know but desperate to, Marcoh glances up.

Scar is watching him in that careful way of his, gaze steady and intense. Marcoh drops his own eyes back to his hand on Scar’s arm on the table. His heart stutters madly. The lantern flame gutters and goes out.

The cold presses in, seeming more pervasive without that fading circle of warmth to drive it back. The only warmth in the room now is the warmth of Scar’s body, the heat of his blood rising up through the delicate skin of his inner wrist to brush Marcoh’s numb fingertips. Marcoh never wears gloves when they do this. He shivers in the dark, feeling simultaneously ridiculous and terrified. He does not know why Scar does not move. He does not know why he himself stays still.

At last Scar moves, an indecisive shifting in his seat. It’s unlike him. Though his arm tenses under Marcoh’s hand, he makes no attempt to withdraw.

A strange impulse takes Marcoh. His fingers twitch and tighten, gripping Scar’s wrist more securely, unable to fully encircle it. In a heartbeat surely Scar will break free and rise and go, but Marcoh holds on, not knowing why. Scar’s pulse thrums hot beneath his fingertips, once — twice — again. And again. And Scar is still sitting there, regarding him silently through the hazy darkness.

When Scar’s arm finally twists to shake him off, fast and sudden, Marcoh lets go. So he’s decided, then. The decision doesn’t bring the relief Marcoh thought it would.

And yet Scar doesn’t stand up, even now that he’s taken himself back. Instead he brings his arm back in toward himself just as quickly as he moved out from under Marcoh’s hand, pulling it up against his chest awkwardly. He doesn’t look at it. It’s not as though the design would be visible now even without the bandages, with the faint light from the door barely catching his silhouette against the shadows; even so, Marcoh can’t help but notice the way his body moves to curl in around it, more defensive than protective.

So this is what Marcoh has done.

Scar is quiet. He shows no intention of leaving. Marcoh wishes he would, and be done with it. What more could Scar possibly need from him? Now that they’ve finished here he has nothing left to give, nothing to accomplish that Scar could not accomplish on his own, without him. Both of them know it. They both know that in a better world Marcoh would have been dead long before his actions could bring them to this point.

Perhaps Scar is thinking the same thing, crouched there over his arm like a wounded animal. Perhaps —

“I’m sorry,” Marcoh blurts out, not sure whether he means the impertinence of his hand on Scar’s arm or everything else he’s done to him. As always the words feel empty. Pointless. Words make no reparation.

He doesn’t expect any acknowledgment from Scar, and receives none. Instead Scar stands abruptly, still carrying his arm as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. After a second Marcoh follows suit, slowly getting to his feet. The strange interlude that was this night is passing away, and they can be on their way now, leaving it behind them to sputter out quietly like a lantern flame before the dark and the cold. Something about that seems wrong. A feeling like revulsion curls in the pit of Marcoh’s stomach. He does not know if he deserves to walk away from here at all.

Scar, reaching for the dead lantern, checks himself before he touches it. Maybe he feels it too: the discomfort of business left unfinished.

“What do you want?” Low as it is, Scar’s voice is shocking in the waiting dark.

It’s an absurd thing to ask, so much so that at first Marcoh doesn’t recognize the question as being meant for him. He involuntarily glances behind himself toward the door for whoever Scar must be accosting, and is on his way to being confused when he finds no one there until he realizes.

Is he supposed to have an answer to that? His hands tense and grip the back of his chair. Tired confusion battles baffled anger in his mind. He isn’t supposed to want things. He doesn’t want to want things. Wanting is a dangerous privilege, one he has done his best to deny himself since Ishval. He would have thought that Scar of all people would understand that.

 _Nothing_ , he tries to say, but his mouth won’t say it. _Why?_ he doesn’t dare ask. He is afraid of himself and what he wants to do, to say. He hates himself for wanting.

Suddenly Scar is close to him, that odd tenseness lingering in his body, heat rolling off his chest and bare arms and into the scant space between them. “What do you want?” he repeats, a note of something unidentifiable in his voice, something like frustration. His breath is hot on Marcoh’s forehead when he speaks.

Marcoh releases the chair and steps back quickly until his back meets the wall and there is nowhere left to go. “I don’t know,” he says. “Anything.” His voice falters and he despises himself for a coward. He swallows and closes his eyes. “Anything — whatever you need.”

Scar follows when Marcoh moves and stands before him, breath hot and uneven. He’s quiet for a moment after Marcoh speaks, motionless in the dark. Then for the first time that night his left arm appears to remember itself. It unfolds from his chest and reaches out and up until its fingertips rest against the side of Marcoh’s neck, palm barely brushing his throat.

“Even this,” Scar says, very low, not quite a question.

The lack of pressure is almost teasing, the breath in Marcoh’s lungs like a betrayal, and he doesn’t know what Scar means to do with him and he doesn’t know what he wants, but Marcoh _wants_. He lifts his chin and tilts his head back against the wall and gives himself over.

The pressure when it does comes is harsh and sudden, Scar’s hand crushing a gasp from Marcoh’s throat. Blood pounds in his ears. His fingers scrabble desperately at the wall of their own volition and he forces them still. Scar’s hand moves, rough and shockingly warm against his skin, its grasp tightening unbearably. He forces his body not to fight for breath, not to move. This is Scar’s right.

With the lantern gone Marcoh can’t feel his vision blur, not really, but Scar’s hand presses closer and he feels a creeping lethargy beneath the pain and the instinctual mad panic for air. Something in him still pushes to fight, deep down, but his limbs refuse to move in response; he doesn’t have to force them back this time. Slowly he comes to the realization that Scar’s hand is still there, strong and relentless as ever. So this is where he’s going to die.  _That's nice,_ he thinks confusedly, and hopes Scar won’t be too upset by it all. Beyond the incessant pounding of blood in his head, the dizziness that clouds his mind, he’s hurting somewhere but he can’t locate the source of it, and Scar’s hand is so warm.

The next thing Marcoh knows is cold. This can’t be death. He still hurts. Tentatively he inhales.

The air slices into his throat like a shard of ice and he catches his breath, which hurts worse. The intensity of the pain forces everything immediately into place: he feels the hurt in his throat, and the source of the cold is rough against his cheek and beneath him. He’s lying on the ground with his arm underneath him.

Once he’s urged his eyelids apart by sheer force of will Marcoh sees only a blur of darkness upon deeper darkness. When he squints, trying to distinguish some shape, pain throbs behind his eyes and he hears his own breath hiss between his teeth.

Instead of trying that again he blinks slowly and takes careful, shallow breaths as the world reorients itself into a clearer picture. The room is just as dark as before, and as cold. Here on the packed-sod floor he can all but feel the cold sending up tendrils into his body, burying roots in his bones. His body aches with it. In the numbing pulse of cold, the place where Scar’s hand touched him and the sharpness of breath in his throat are dazzlingly warm points of sensation.

 _Scar._ Is he here? He might have gone, once finished with Marcoh. But a certain presence about the room makes Marcoh think not — he knows the feeling of Scar’s eyes upon him well enough by now.

“Is it dangerous?” Scar says in the darkness.

“...What?” Marcoh raises his head with no small difficulty, wincing as he cranes his neck to look around what he can see of the room. By the weak moonlight sifting through the door slats he can make out Scar’s form, standing by the table, facing away from him.

Scar makes an impatient-sounding noise in the back of his throat. “That. What I did. Just now. Could it harm you?”

 _I thought you were going to kill me_ , Marcoh thinks, forcing down a mad impulse to laugh. “Does it matter?”

Silence.

“Well — yes. Potentially.” The words rasp painfully in Marcoh’s throat. He swallows. It doesn’t help. He lets his head settle back onto the floor, wondering if Scar needs to know this or if he just wants to hear Marcoh say it himself. “Collapse of the trachea, blockage of the arteries in the neck preventing oxygen from reaching the brain, both fatal. Strangulation. It’s straightforward enough, about what you would expect, really — ” He has to stop and swallow again. The words grate his throat raw, laying it bare for every breath to slash with knives of ice.

Scar doesn’t say anything to that at first. Then, a hint of a question in his voice, he says, “But you want this.”

Of course it’s not a question of wanting — not for Marcoh, certainly, and he doubts Scar really wants this either. No. What lies between them goes deeper than want, defying explanation now just as it has since the beginning. Right now there’s no need for technicalities: Scar needs, Marcoh deserves. So, they want. It’s all the same. “If you do.”

Again, Scar says nothing. The silence and the darkness stretch infinitely in the small space of the room.

Still not sure that he won’t fall apart at the first sudden movement, Marcoh gingerly brings a hand up to touch his throat, unsure what he’s feeling for. From the outside it’s the same throat as ever, warm soft skin stretched over solid muscle and beating pulse. Logically he could not have expected anything else, yet a part of his mind is still vaguely surprised not to feel himself breaking apart where Scar touched him with such sudden force.

As though summoned by the thought Scar steps away from the table without a sound. Moving hesitantly, he comes to stand over Marcoh. For a second he stays like that — tall, certain, immovable. Then he bends and reaches out, offering his left hand. Marcoh takes it and wonders if he’ll be able to stand.

Scar draws him easily to his feet. Marcoh’s legs shake and want to drop him so he steps back and finds the wall again and leans against it, the corrugated steel cold at his back. “That was,” he says, swallowing another wild burst of laughter. His throat aches and his heart is racing. Under his shirt his body is damp with sweat, but when Scar comes in close to him again he feels warmth envelop him. He is light-headed, almost giddy, and momentarily he forgets not to want. _Do that again_ , he almost says before he remembers himself. Instead he lets his head tilt back against the wall again and waits.

“I don’t want to harm you,” Scar says, that same quiet note of a question in his voice, but his hand is already at Marcoh’s throat again.

Scar’s grasp is tentative this time, more nervous than gentle, his fingers tense, their weight perfectly balanced against the side of Marcoh’s neck. When he presses down with his palm the weight of it is indecisive, a warm question. Marcoh lifts his chin, closing his eyes.

Scar’s breath is hot and his hand is hot, the slow intensifying pressure edged with pain where Scar’s fingers rest against the bruises they left behind last time. Marcoh lets out a little breath, his fingers relaxing against the wall as Scar’s hand closes tighter and his head swims and his heart leaps in his chest. It would be wrong to want this for himself, but for Scar—

The pressure of Scar’s hand relaxes and Marcoh leans after it without thinking, craving the aching force of those fingers holding his breath, his life, with the same ease that his own fingers held Scar’s wrist earlier that night, steadying it for the last prick of the needle. Released, he doesn’t know what to do. What little support the cold wall at his back offers is an empty mockery of the way Scar reached out and held him fast, his whole world grasped in one man’s hand. He doesn’t want to hold himself up anymore.

“Could you,” he gathers enough breath into his raw throat to say. He barely recognizes his own voice. He cannot say _I want_. “Could you please—”

Mercifully Scar’s hand closes around his throat again, harsher than before, pinning him to the wall. Marcoh’s fingers twitch at the suddenness of it, a sound bursting out from between his lips before he can hold back, and Scar’s fingers twitch against his skin in response in what he hopes isn’t hesitation. His heart pounds, useless thoughts sparking and blurring in his mind as Scar takes his life again and holds it there. His vision is going, shadows pooling into other shadows in the dark of the room beyond Scar, and Scar is just a bright-eyed shadow over him and his hands give an involuntary frantic jerk, grasping at Scar’s arm.

“Sorry,” he tries to say when Scar lets go, but his throat doesn’t want to make sounds. He gulps a cautious breath and then can’t deny his treacherous body the air it demands; he sucks in breath after shallow, stabbing breath, panting as he slumps against the wall.

Scar stands over him, breathing heavily, his breath striking Marcoh’s forehead hot and fast on the exhale. His hands are at his sides — Marcoh looks down — clenching into fists and unclenching slowly. The rest of him is still.

“Sorry.” Marcoh forces the ragged word out properly between quick breaths. He had not wanted his hands to do that. “I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t,” Scar says, and touches Marcoh’s right shoulder. The fresh bandage around his left arm has come undone, the shadow of the loose end dripping from his arm toward the floor. His fingers find their way up the side of Marcoh’s neck, his warm callused thumb slipping into the hollow of Marcoh’s throat and up the curve of it, terrifyingly gentle. Marcoh trembles.

This time Scar takes his breath slowly, by aching degrees, until Marcoh feels his captive pulse beating under Scar’s careful fingers and his breath straining to break free. Scar’s hand settles over the older, throbbing bruises again and presses in until they ache dully, balancing the bright dizziness that slides up and clouds Marcoh’s head. He has no breath of his own to breathe, but Scar’s breaths touch his cheek now, damp and hotter than before. Distantly he hears the unevenness of Scar’s breathing in his ear, rough and desperate, the sounds swimming pleasantly together with the echoes of his own furious heartbeat.

Scar lets go of him suddenly and turns away. The cold air pierces Marcoh’s throat and lungs again and shocks the tender skin where Scar’s hand rested. He feels the cold and the pain only halfway; he is still drifting somewhere between life and death, where such things have no meaning anymore.

The sound of Scar’s shuddering breath breaks the borders and pulls Marcoh back into life, where he is cold and his throat stabs at him in the dark. He swallows and pushes himself up against the wall, his blood humming while his head spins. When his vision fully returns to him he can see Scar standing away from him, bent over the table in the dark. The faint light through the door catches the tattered fabric of the unraveling bandage, pale as bone.

Without Scar to hold it back Marcoh’s blood is hot and surges up in him with a vengeance, wanting, _wanting_. It turns his stomach. Already he has forgotten what little purpose he had left, and in his foolishness perhaps undone what little there was left for him to do. He pushes himself up from the wall, willing his feet to carry him to the table where Scar stands like a wounded man.

“Are you hurt?” he says, and is ashamed of the telling hoarseness in his voice. He touches Scar’s wrist and Scar moves his hand away, the bandage trailing behind. Self-loathing seizes Marcoh; he does not know what he could have been thinking, to make Scar do such things to him, to tell himself Scar needed it. He can only try once more to make some reparation for this wrong. “Please, let me fix it.”

“I’m not— ” Scar’s voice is odd, brief. He makes to push himself up from the table, then stays where he is, his head turned away from Marcoh.

“I’m sorry,” Marcoh says, stricken. “This... I know this was to heal, to reconstruct, and not to harm.” His body refuses to listen to his mind, his words. He is hot all over, his pulse pounding in his throat and low in his body, and he wants nothing more than for Scar to crush the breath from him again. He is despicable. “I — I made you harm me, and you are hurt. Let me fix it, then I’ll go.” He dares not say _Then you can do what you want with me_. He’s afraid he would want it too.

“I’m not hurt,” Scar says, his voice low. “I am the one who should be seeking your forgiveness. I forgot myself.” Abruptly he stands straight. He holds still for an instant, tense as though deliberating, then thrusts out his left arm.

Too relieved by Scar’s acquiescence to protest what he is saying, Marcoh steps in close and takes Scar’s arm to bandage it. Each time he breathes the cold air cuts at his throat. Scar’s body is warm and smells of ink and sweat. Marcoh’s own body warms in eager response, the pit of his stomach alive with twisting heat, and he re-wraps the bandage as quickly as he dares. As he refastens the bandage his fingers graze hot skin and Scar goes tense.

“Marcoh,” Scar says, and then he is gripping Marcoh’s wrist, not tight, the way he held Marcoh’s throat, but loose, almost nervous, like he expects Marcoh to break away. He holds it awkwardly there before him, not moving.

Marcoh does not understand, but the coal of eagerness low in his gut leaps and is kindled into flame, and he is terrified. He should not be here. “What do you need?” he breathes, and the minute tightening of Scar’s callused fingers around his wrist would be answer enough for him, but then Scar moves, drawing Marcoh’s hand down to rest at the line of his hip where it meets his thigh, and Marcoh is on his knees.

Here the heat of Scar’s body is unbearable. Marcoh cannot feel the pain of his own breath anymore. The floor is hard and hurts his knees when he sinks down upon it but in an instant that too is gone. Muscles quiver under his hand. Before he can lose his nerve or his conscience can speak, he slides his hand down over the tautness of Scar’s thigh to touch where Scar is hard beneath the fabric.

Scar makes a low sound above him when Marcoh lets his fingers stop there on the hard curve of Scar’s cock where it presses out against Scar’s trousers, stretching them to fit its shape. The sound catches in Marcoh’s gut like a hook of fire, tugging him closer and making his fingers move without his bidding. They go to the fastenings of Scar’s trousers and begin to undo them; his other hand moves to help.

“Oh,” he cannot help but say when his hands tug down Scar’s trousers and Scar’s cock springs free. He knows, of course, how it is done with a man, and even through the haze clouding his mind he had known, immediately, what Scar needed of him, but there is knowing and then there is seeing. Feeling, too. In the dark of the room he can still make out the dark stiff shape of Scar’s cock and the glistening head. His fingers rest on the low curve of Scar’s abdomen, just above the base of Scar’s cock, and he can feel its heat there and against his cheek. The strength of his own want turns his stomach.

He leans up and forward, moving as if in a dream. The tip of Scar’s cock grazes his cheek, hot and damp, as he sets his mouth against Scar’s skin just above his own fingers. It does not seem quite real. Forgetting himself, Marcoh thinks of men he has known before and mouths at the base of Scar’s cock like a lover, salt sharp on his tongue as the smell and the heat of Scar’s body envelops him.

When he leans back again to lick along the hard length of Scar’s cock, it twitches wetly against his cheek and Scar makes another choked, abortive sound over him, a tremor running through his body under Marcoh’s hands. That is good, very good, and bright tingling heat surges in Marcoh again, his own cock jerking in his trousers. He mouths more eagerly at the underside of Scar’s cock, his saliva pooling wetly on his tongue and lips, dampening his chin.

“Stop,” Scar says abruptly, a strangled word, and his hands close viselike on Marcoh’s shoulders, forcing him back.

Marcoh stops. He has no choice. His heart sinks and he swallows carefully, tilting his head back to try to see the look in Scar’s face as he bends over him. He can taste Scar still on his lips and tongue, and his heart races, exhilaration and fear, his cock throbbing and straining between his legs where he kneels. “I don’t understand,” he says, fighting to steady his voice. He tastes Scar again when his lips move. “Is this not... what you need?”

“No.” Scar’s hands are still closed painfully tight around Marcoh’s shoulders, but now he sounds hesitant, almost gentle. “Marcoh. It’s not that. I don’t—” He stops, breathing unevenly, every inhale short and ragged like he’s begging for air.

If Marcoh tilted his head ever so slightly back and stretched up as far as he could reach he knows his lips would find Scar’s neck, the pulse of blood there, the breath heavy in his throat and the sharp rigid line of his jaw — and Marcoh stops himself, forces himself to stop, horrified. That’s not what Scar needs. That isn’t what Marcoh deserves. He should never have touched Scar the way he did.

Instead he leans down and presses his mouth slowly to the slick head of Scar’s cock, his lips parting just enough to let his tongue slip out and taste. A strangled sound breaks halfway from Scar’s mouth before Scar stifles it. Even then his hands betray him, fingers digging deep into Marcoh’s shoulders as his cock twitches beneath Marcoh’s lips, leaking fluid onto Marcoh’s lips and tongue. Marcoh leans away and closes his eyes hard, willing himself to do this.

“Please. You need this.” _I need this._ He tastes Scar on his tongue with the half-truth, feels wetness smear his lips and drip down his chin. In a way, this is for both of them. The knowledge doesn’t change the guilt settled soft inside his chest, but Marcoh supposes nothing would change that now. It is pathetic to beg like this, to lie like this, but he supposes too that it suits him. He licks his lips and tastes Scar there too. “Let me do this for you. Please.”

Scar trembles violently, his breath coming even heavier. “You—” The word breaks apart into a sobbing noise. His hands slip from Marcoh’s shoulders. “I don’t know what’s right anymore.”

“Let me,” Marcoh says again numbly. He leans forward and takes Scar into his mouth.

Above him Scar shudders and moans, his hand dropping back to rest on Marcoh’s head, fingers clenching in his hair. It is a sound unlike any Marcoh has ever heard him make; his own cock aches, pressed between his thighs. Scar’s cock is heavy and hot on his tongue, so thick he has to stretch his mouth wide to take it further, and he nearly forgets to guard his teeth. He swallows clumsily as Scar’s cock twitches and leaks onto the back of his tongue, trying to open wider so he can take Scar fully in.

Scar makes another unbelievable noise when Marcoh swallows and there’s a sharp pain in Marcoh’s scalp, Scar’s hand tugging at his hair — whether to pull him closer or away, Marcoh cannot tell. Jaw aching, he leans as close as he can, forcing down his gag reflex when he feels the tip of Scar’s cock nudge the back of his throat.

It is too hard to keep Scar that way; it has been too long. He draws back and closes his lips around Scar’s cock and sucks, tongue working at the underside of the head, probing at the slit until fluid wells up there in reward. Scar trembles above him, thighs tense where Marcoh’s hands are, as though longing to move but fearing to.

“Go on,” Marcoh murmurs hoarsely, leaning back just long enough to speak, his lips slick and dripping wet. This hesitation — gentleness — is the last thing he wanted, for all that he knows his own wants do not matter.

Scar’s hand closes tight in his hair again. Marcoh’s cock pulses eagerly and and he closes his eyes and lets himself be pulled in, opening to accept Scar into his mouth once more. This time Scar moves into him, the muscles of his thighs loosening and tightening as his hips dip tentatively forward; Marcoh stretches his jaw wider and tugs at Scar’s trousers with his hands, encouraging, praying.

Scar goes slow at first, his hips swaying gently forward and back, fingers curling and uncurling over Marcoh’s scalp. The sounds that Scar makes now escape with his halting breath, strange small ragged noises almost obscured by the wet slide of Scar’s cock between Marcoh’s lips and over his tongue. Straining, Marcoh forces his mouth open, one hand dropping to press against himself through his trousers as he grabs at Scar’s thigh with the other, heedless of how his nails dig into the curve of muscle through the cloth. Scar gasps, his hips bucking forward.

The uncontrolled jerk of Scar’s hips fills Marcoh’s mouth and throat with the intoxicating heat and weight of him, awakening a dull new throb of pain in Marcoh’s overused throat. Marcoh chokes and swallows with gratitude, allowing Scar’s urgent hands to pull him in the rest of the way until his nose presses into the hair at the base of Scar’s cock and he couldn’t breathe even if he tried. He swallows again desperately, his own cock jumping under his hand as tears spring up and seep out between his eyelids.

He gasps and chokes when Scar pulls out, but Scar gives him no leisure to breathe this time, hands closing tight in his hair and dragging him in again as Scar thrusts forward. The noise Marcoh makes is muffled by the thickness of Scar’s cock in his throat, the filthy wet sound his mouth makes when Scar pulls back and thrusts in again.

There’s no rhythm or measure to the way Scar fucks his throat, clumsy and brutal, pain burning in Marcoh’s scalp where Scar pulls at his hair. His jaw aches, his throat burning as his lungs scream for air, his lips and chin dripping with his own spit and the taste of Scar.

Marcoh did not ask for this to bring pleasure to himself, truly, but the burn of his jaw and throat is knotting itself up inside him, drawing tight and fiery hot while his blood pounds in his cock, and he presses his hand unconsciously harder against himself, his hips rutting feebly up against it as he takes Scar’s cock again and again. Scar pushes deep into his throat and stops there, holding back his breath, and through the haze of soft breathless panic Marcoh realizes too late what he is doing, his selfishness, and he pulls his hand away, too late. Scar’s hips jerk back and he chokes and coughs and breathes and comes, spending all his shame and selfishness and want into his trousers there where he kneels on the cold ground.

Scar’s movements grow fast and sloppy, and Marcoh takes what he is given, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as hot guilt gathers in his belly. He can hear Scar now above the sounds of their joining, uneven wet breaths catching in Scar’s throat with every forward jolt of his hips.

When Scar trembles and thrusts into him one last time and stays there, Marcoh clings to him, swallowing desperately as Scar’s cock twitches and spills Scar’s release over Marcoh’s tongue and the back of his throat. The taste is hot and bitter as the guilt in Marcoh’s stomach. He closes his mouth on Scar, sucking him gently, cleaning the wet bitterness from him with his tongue and swallowing it down. He is light-headed when at last Scar slips out, softening, between his lips; his breath is not his own anymore.

His lips and tongue and throat are hot and tender, and the cold air slashes them like ice. He stares down at his knees, grateful for the dark that hides the creeping wetness that stains his trousers. Again he wonders if he will be able to stand. He doesn’t know what he will do if Scar reaches to raise him up again.

His neck throbs with pain and the memory of Scar’s hand there. The bruises will show there when the sun rises. He will need his scarf. He is shivering, his hands trembling like frail paper, and he cannot seem to stop.

At the table Scar is bent over again, his back turned to Marcoh, his shoulders slumped wearily like some great weight has fallen from him. He is still as stone in the early light that comes in through the door. The pale bandage around his left arm holds fast.

**Author's Note:**

> outtakes for your palate: [[1]](https://i.imgur.com/VtSeieC.png) [[2]](https://i.imgur.com/yPdxgeh.png)


End file.
